


to the light

by fondleeds



Category: One Direction
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mermaid Harry, a dash of angst because we all know my emo self cant just write straight up fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:43:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fondleeds/pseuds/fondleeds
Summary: “Hey,” Louis kicks his leg out at him, misses by a mile, but Harry’s cheeks still glow at it, all close-mouthed smile and dimples. “It’s Christmas. I refuse to let you be lonesome and dejected on Christmas.”"It’s not Christmas yet,” Harry says, matter-of-fact, like he knew that before Louis told him about it that first week of December, when the lights had started appearing and Harry had risen out of the water with such wonder and dreaminess in his eyes, the last dustings of snow caught in his wet lashes.“It’s the Christmas season,” Louis responds. Harry rolls his eyes at him.-AU. Harry is a mermaid lost at sea and Louis is a boy determined to make his first Christmas a memorable one.





	to the light

**Author's Note:**

> hiii my loves, happy holidays!! hope ur all having a wonderful time ♡
> 
> this fic was written as a part of a secret santa fic exchange between content creators, organized by the lovely and talented [susan](http://dunkirks.tumblr.com), bless her heart. sooooo *drum roll* [julie](http://louistomlinsons.tumblr.com), i hope u like this fic my love!! i um'd and ah'd over what to pick from your list of fic preferences, but i'm really happy i ended up picking something a little different to what i'd normally do, this was super fun to write, and i totally agree with u. we need more mermaid aus!!
> 
> thank u all for another wonderful year. the love u guys show me is amazing and i feel so blessed to be a part of this amazing community. im wishing u all a safe and merry christmas!
> 
> enjoy ♡

 

It feels cold enough for snow when Louis’ feet meet the pebbles. 

There’s something so alien about the beach during the heart of winter time, the deserted, desolate nature of it, all blue-grey tones and fog, nothing like the peach sunshine of summer. The tide is low, thrashing water foaming in the distance, leaving the awkward slope of pebbles exposed, a steep dip that almost mirrors the slanting edges of the cliffs behind him. Shooting from the cliffside itself, out over the stooped land and into the water, the old pier creaks softly, worn wood and frayed rope and the dusty, muted orange colour of the buoys. Despite the harsh wind the beach doesn’t budge, weighed down and packed in tight from the damp chill and the earlier rain. 

Pulling his scarf up higher around his face and adjusting his hood, Louis ducks his head against a billowing squall of sea wind and starts his walk towards the pier, hands dug deep in the soft wool of his pockets. He can hear the muted shrillness of the restaurants above, hanging over the cliffside, rooftops dusted in snow and protecting the town that lies behind. With a shiver, he leaves the pebble beach behind and walks slowly along the wonky wood. The pier is hardly impressive, but in the grey noon light the fog makes it seem as though it stretches onwards endlessly, disappearing in a wispy blur.

It’ll be dark soon, the sea haze blurred with a vignette, the kind that means somewhere behind the mass of cloud and murky English sky, the sun is lowering. When he reaches the end of the pier, Louis looks down at the water, the place where the waves are pushing and pulling and exploding in cold foam against the wooden foundations. As he starts the cautious climb down the rusty ladder, he takes only a moment to question all his life choices thus far, as he always does, before finally settling, seated one of the icy iron bars, legs slotted through, arms curled around the sides, so that his body is protected by the thin strips of metal. His fingers are dotted with seafoam already, and he buries deeper into his coat, shivers again, and waits.

Waits.

Waits.

By the time Harry’s head pops up from under the water, slow, cautious, the sea moulding around the shape of his body, Louis’ lips feel blue and numb. Harry at least has the decency to look a little guilty, face still half masked by water, just his eyes and the bridge of his nose peeking up from below.

“You’re late,” Louis says, slightly muffled by his scarf. “I’m _frozen_.”

Harry ducks beneath the water again, and when he reappears he’s by Louis’ side, thin fingers cautiously curling against the ladder, peering up at him. “I was watching the lights.”

He gestures upwards, towards the cliff, gaze glazed with a soft wonder. If Louis imagines hard enough he can almost picture it perfectly, Harry floating out in deep water, watching the whole scope of the cliffs from the cradle of the waves, watching the blues and greens and reds of Christmas lights flashing, of headlights and shadows under golden streetlamps, all of it silhouetted. 

“I see where your priorities are,” Louis says, and Harry scrunches his nose, ducks half beneath the water again, eyes creased in the corners. Bubbles form, the waves washing them away as they come.

“You know how easily I get distracted,” he says, when he rises up. He runs his fingers lazily through the water.

“I do,” Louis laughs softly. It never fails to leave him breathless, the way the sea seems to move around Harry, for him, like it’s accommodating his space between each pulse in the waves. He’s pale in the winter light, frosty eyed, lips rosy pink, different to the summer, to autumn, to fading tan and golden flakes. Louis shivers again, and Harry frowns, bobbing up and down gently.

“You’re cold,” he says.

“Extremely so,” Louis says, and Harry huffs a laugh, pushing wet hair from his face when the water brushes it against his chin and sticks it there. 

“You don’t have to come,” he says softly, flicking his eyes down and shrugging. He always manages to look so small in the gulf of the waves, broad shoulders thinned, wrists bony and delicate, the shadows of his collarbones dipped and full of beaded water, and between them, just below, the rusty silver cross he wears bumps against his chest with the motion of the water. 

“I want to,” Louis says, resting his chin against the backs of his fingers, feeling the chill of the ladder seep up even through his own skin. “You know that.”

“Mm,” Harry looks bashful and unsure, still, even after all these months. 

“ _Hey,_ ” Louis kicks his leg out at him, misses by a mile, but Harry’s cheeks still glow at it, all close-mouthed smile and dimples. “It’s Christmas. I refuse to let you be lonesome and dejected on Christmas.”

“It’s not Christmas _yet_ ,” Harry says, all matter-of-fact, like he knew that before Louis told him about it that first week of December, when the lights had started appearing and Harry had risen out of the water with such wonder and dreaminess in his eyes, the last dustings of snow caught in his wet lashes. 

“It’s the Christmas _season_ ,” Louis responds. Harry rolls his eyes at him. “Oi, none of that.”

Harry huffs and swims closer, braces his arms on the wooden beam that stretches between the two foundations of the pier, his head almost resting on Louis shin when he lets it loll to the side, hair fanning down his neck and shoulders, the tips wobbling when the water rises up and licks over his skin. Finally, he looks away, cheek cushioned on his forearms, staring at the water beneath. The sea is caught in his lashes, glinting them silver and ebony. 

“You alright?” Louis says softly, watching Harry’s fingers dip into the water again, drawing those same little whirlpools. There are some days when he gets like this, distant and hazy, floating and drifting up and below the water, body sinking like the current is trying to pull him far out into the ocean and away. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. With his arms over the beam like this, body exposed, Louis can see down the line of his back, and when the water shifts, the first shimmer and smoothness of his tail is visible, midnight blue and glazed with an olive film, a dreamy oil slick of colour that melts into the water. Harry shifts, one arm holding on now, his shoulders swooping back below the water. “Are you still going to come? During Christmas, I mean.”

“Of course,” Louis frowns. “Course I will.”

“But your family–”

“See me all day, everyday,” Louis says, interrupting gently. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Dunno,” Harry scrunches his nose, wipes his knuckles against it. “I miss you when you’re not here. Is that selfish?”

It’s self-conscious and quiet, and he ducks his eyes when he says it, shrugging one shoulder and twirling the water again distractedly. Louis’ heart thumps. 

“Not at all,” he says. He tries to imagine what it would be like, surrounded by the water all day, swimming in circles and waiting for anything, something, to happen. All alone in the infinite ocean. Harry ducks closer to him, fingers curling over the edge of his wellies, thumb digging in slightly. A harsh wind skirts along the waves, chopping them and spraying foam, and Louis squints again it, wriggles his toes beneath Harry’s fingers to make him laugh, breaking the ice that’s glazing his eyes. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

“Right,” Harry rolls his eyes. His ears are pink, and he ducks his chin and mouth beneath the water, bubbles rising again. It shouldn’t be as endearing as Louis finds it. When he rises again, the water clings to his mouth and skin in shiny droplets. “Because I’m just _incredibly_ exciting to be around.”

“I’m not sure if you’re being sarcastic or not,” Louis muses, brows raised. Harry punches his shin gently, then presses his forehead there, leaving a damp spot. It’s freezing, but Louis bears it for the revel he gets of Harry touching him like that, these intimate snippets of interaction that he sometimes allows Louis to have with him, somewhat a sign of comfort. “You’re _the_ most exciting person I know.”

“Person,” Harry repeats, flicking his eyes away. Louis sighs in his chest, quiet.

“Yeah,” he nudges Harry’s shoulder gently, and he finally meets Louis’ gaze again. “You are.”

Harry goes bright pink, his cheeks flushed too this time, sinking into the water until just his eyes are shining upward. It’s just one of those days, one of the quiet moments that Harry falls into. He’s always been quiet ever since the moment their worlds came together, cautious and gentle, but he’s uncurled the cage around himself too, in the months that Louis has known him. Sometimes he revists that place though, gets stuck there for a little. Sometimes Louis can coax him out, and sometimes he just has to wait for the tide to settle. 

“How long until Christmas, now?” Harry says.

“Thirteen days,” Louis perks up. “Which means it’s only twelve days until the most celebrated holiday we have.” 

“Your birthday,” Harry rolls his eyes, groans the words.

“Excuse _me_ ,” Louis says, mock offended, a hand over his chest. Harry giggles and hides his face. “Well, now I know why you were so late today. You’re trying to let me go easy, aren’t you? Right before my birthday, too. I’m wounded, Curly.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Harry muffles his laugh into his forearms, gone so soft that his giggling is almost inaudible, hair falling all over the place, eyes like tiny beacons when he looks up at Louis, shiny with a giddiness that makes Louis’ stomach feel warm despite the cold. “‘M not. I just like watching the lights, that’s all. They’re so pretty.”

“I’ll get you some, then,” Louis says, trying not to get lost in the feeling in his chest at Harry being so fascinated with the most simple things, the things Louis often takes for granted. “We can decorate. God knows this thing needs it.”

He slaps his palm against the edge of the pier. Harry looks at him curiously. 

“You’d do that?” he says softly. “For me?”

“Sure,” Louis says. “I can find some that can go in the water, then you can take them with you.”

Harry looks awed, misty eyed as he swims to Louis’ front, water swishing and shifting with the sudden movement.

“Really?” he breathes. Tilted up like this, Harry’s hair falls back from his face, leaves him all cheekbones and soft temples and wet, tangled brows, mused lashes and eyes so mossy and pale. 

“Yes,” Louis can’t help the amused laughter that tugs at his lips. “They’re just lights.”

Harry shakes his head, though, cups his hands against his chest and looks so full of elation, that spark flickering behind his hazy eyes, and it sort of hits Louis then, the absurdity of it all, of Harry never seeing Christmas lights before in his life, seeing them as some far away stars that flicker, warm, enchanting bulbs that flash in the distance like an unreachable dream. He thinks of Christmas joy and his family and the flakes of wood by the fire, the smell of pine needles and the roast in the oven, and when he breathes it’s suddenly replaced by salt and sand and the ocean wind, by a chill. He wants to bring the warmth here, back to Harry’s eyes. 

“I’ll bring you something every day,” Louis says, and Harry’s brows furrow slowly, head tilting. 

“What do you mean?” he says.

“I don’t know. I guess, I…” Louis searches for the words, then, the thought sparks. “It’ll be like a twelve days of Christmas thing.”

“Twelve…” Harry trails off, that unsureness glazing his eyes the way it always does when he doesn’t understand something Louis’ said.

“Sometimes, people organize, like, a giving of gifts for the days leading up to Christmas. It’s from a song,” Louis tries to explain. Harry looks more confused, but he seems to be following, waiting for Louis to say more. “I could do that. Bring you things, y’know? Christmas things.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes, and it’s a tiny inhale, watery-eyed when he presses his forehead against Louis’ shin again to hide the fact. “That. That sounds really nice.”

“It’ll be fun,” Louis says softly. He has to curl his fingers against the ladder to stop himself reaching down to touch Harry’s hair, thread his fingers through it. Harry is still cautious about it, physical touches, tends to drift in the water and just leave lingering fingers on Louis’ feet. He’s clingy today, though. Louis’ pants are almost soaked through from seafoam and Harry’s hair. “Promise.” 

Harry nods, face still hidden away. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are clear, and he’s smiling softly, gratefully, beginning to drift out into the water. It’s getting darker now, noon ticking over into night, that vignette spreading like a dull bruise, the water on the horizon tinted black. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Harry asks, the same way he asks every single day. The current is pulling him like a natural guide, like his body is just part of the water and it’s time for the tide to swallow him, now. Louis almost longs to follow, wants to reach out.

“You will,” he says, and then Harry is gone, sinking beneath the water with nothing more than a smile and a flicker of his tail, flashing brilliantly and leaving Louis breathless. Then he’s alone again, freezing and smiling stupidly down at the ocean, reluctant to leave despite how achy his body is from winter chill.

-

They met, as Louis loosely puts it, at the very end of summer, those transcendent days when the beaches started to empty, visitors packing up and finally going home after trying to stretch their holiday into an endless dream. It was the tiny pocket of time that allowed the locals to have free reign of the beach again, hauling picnic blankets and giant umbrellas and plastic chairs up and down the staggering steps of the cliffside and onto the pebbles, digging their toes in, hands on hips, taking in the expansive sea that they call their backyard. 

He and the girls had spent lunchtime in the water, and as afternoon begun to bask them in it’s golden hour, they strolled along the pier, the girls with giant cones of ice cream, melon and cookie dough and mint choc-chip, pastel colours and waffle cones, sugar smeared around their lips, stuck in their hair from the wind. With their elbows leant along the off-white railing around the pier, listening to it creak, they watched the sun dip, watched hot streaks of orange skid along the tops of the water, blushing the distant white caps apricot and peach, all those summer fruits hazed and projected like a film of gooey nectar over everything. 

The wind had picked up by then, blowing the first cool gusts up towards them, and a particularly strong billow of it hand knocked Lottie’s cap clean off her head, sending it flying down below and into the gentle waves, her hair wiping around her head.

“Lou!” she looked to him immediately, the twins already leaning their entire bodies over the railing to try and spot the soft pink fabric.

“It went under,” Daisy said, pointing an awkward finger beneath the pier. “Lou, you _have_ to get it.”

“It’s just a hat,” he tried weakly. Lottie sent him daggers in return, and he accepted his fate and climbed the rickety old ladder down.

The cap had in fact flown under the pier, nudged by the ebb of the waves, and he had to awkwardly balance along the beams, praying he wouldn’t get splinters in his bare feet, or that he wouldn’t fall in, realizing with a curse that he had his phone in his back pocket. The girls strained over the edge of the pier to watch him disappear, until he was too far gone and out of sight and all he could hear was their shouted encouragements. 

Things felt muted beneath the wood, the waves almost softer, breaking against the rough edges and settling into a dull pool in the centre of the structure. Lottie’s cap was tucked between a long wooden beam and one of the pillars that held up the weight of the pier, and Louis had to stretch his body to reach for it, toes painfully tucked over the beam to stop himself from falling, just one hand down to steady himself lest he fall. 

He nearly did fall, too, when a pair of thin fingers reached for the cap the same moment he did.

They’d both pulled at once, Louis tugging harder, and before he’d even realized what had happened, realized _why_ it was such an effort, there were a pair of eyes looking back at him, and he’d almost screamed, sure that for a moment he’d accidentally uncovered a dead body, that their little town would become the centre of a media frenzy, the ones they showed in films. But then the eyes had blinked, and thin fingers had curled around the beam.

It wasn’t so much a meeting as it was a startled moment of _oh shit_ , the two of them staring bewildered at each other. Harry was only just out of the water, just the tips of his shoulders poking out, hunched in on himself, face obscured by the beam, still clutching tightly onto the brim of Lottie’s cap. They’d both been completely still, mouths parted, the entire world stopped around them, and Harry had looked careful and curious, peering up at Louis from beneath wet lashes, had started to pull the cap towards himself slowly, Louis too shocked to do anything but follow, leaning closer to the water, closer to this strange boy that had appeared out of nowhere– 

“ _Louis!_ Did you get it!?”

Harry had startled so suddenly that Louis almost toppled forward. He had been frantic, flicking a frightened gaze up to the pier before he disappeared in a shudder, turning quick as a whip and melting into the blue sea, flicking up a giant wave of water as he did so. Louis had been soaked, staring with his arm still outstretched, mouth parted, water dripping into his eyes, trying to figure out if he’d slipped on the way down here and hit his head, if he’d really just seen a tail attached to that boy’s body, if he’d really seen him at all. 

By the time he managed to climb back up onto the pier, he felt entirely out of his body and slightly delirious.

“Where’s my hat?” Lottie blinked at him as she helped him up onto the structure, looking devastated. “And why are you all wet?”

“It sunk,” Louis replied uselessly, unsure if he’d formed actual words. 

“That was my favourite,” Lottie whined, shoulders slumping forward in the most teenage of ways, full bodied and limp. 

“You can get a new one,” Daisy said, and then they’d all started to squabble, Lottie insatiable, Louis still too confused to do anything but stand between them and make sure they didn’t slip walking back up the cliffside.  

In the week that followed, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was an endless onslaught of internal questioning, so much so that he began to think that he truly had dreamt the entire thing up, that the shimmer and flash of fish scales was just the glint of sunlight, that Lottie’s cap was still in her wardrobe and they’d never even gone to the beach that day. Finally, though, his resolve broke, and he went back down to the beach in the late afternoon, just the last few sunbathers and families lingering, ready to pack up for the day. 

He’d climbed down the pier and sat on the beam, cross legged and watching the sunset, waiting. Hoping. It was almost dark by the time he decided to leave, dipping his legs into the water to soak in the last of its warmth, knowing that soon it’d be too cold to do so. Eyes closed, head tipped back, he basked in noon light, sighed deep and slow– 

And heard the odd rippling of water in the distance.

His eyes snapped open, and when he looked out to the horizon, there was a head poking up in the water, watching him back silently, chin tucked beneath the waves, starting to drift closer.

-

“I’m confused.”

Harry is staring at the pair of socks in his hands like they’re simultaneously the most interesting and bewildering thing he’s ever seen. Louis is close to tears with laughter. It’s really not _that_ funny, but the placid, genuine look of concern on Harry’s face is what makes it hilarious, the fact that he still tries to look earnestly grateful even though Louis’ just given him a pair of fucking socks.

Harry pulls the packaging apart awkwardly, the little cable tie making a quiet _snap_ , and he holds them out in front of him with a tilted head. Then he starts to slip them onto his hands, and Louis loses it, hands covering his face as he laughs.

“No, no,” he says between his laughter.

“ _What_ ,” Harry huffs, incredulous and giggly.

“Those are socks,” Louis says. “They go on your feet.”

It takes a moment for Harry to get it, and then he’s throwing them into Louis’ face with a scowl, nose all scrunched through his terrible attempt at holding in laughter.

“I hate you so much,” he says, splashing Louis with chilled water, all over his pants. It’s completely freezing and Louis hisses through his teeth, splashing him back with his feet even though Harry remains unfazed by the water. “You are _the_ worst.”

“Admit it, that was clever,” Louis says, and Harry rolls his eyes. “The very peak of comedy.”

“Ha-Ha,” Harry sounds out, dripping with sarcasm. “Can I have my _real_ present, now?”

It’s blisteringly cold, everything chilled, air damp from the sleet that had fallen before daybreak and the clouds haven’t lifted all day, hanging low and shading everything in grey and black, turning the ocean wild. Louis’ fingers are half frozen when he tries to undo the metal clasp on his worn bookbag, fabric stained with food and dirt and years of being thrown back and forth along public transport. When he finally manages to untangle the tiny strip of lights from his old earphones, Harry has two frosty hands cupping his ankles gently, wide-eyed, tail swirling back and forth rapidly in the rough water. 

“You can’t swim too deep,” Louis says as he hands them over slowly, Harry taking them with such fragility, the lights drooping between his fingers. Louis still has the small circular switch in his hands.

When he turns the lights on, their brightness is reflected in Harry’s eyes, flashes of burnt orange and deep red, these fuzzy globes of green and blue and pink.

“Oh,” Harry inhales. The smile that takes over his face is slow, gradual, and he dips the lights beneath the water tentatively. The colours go blurred and hazy, beacons buried beneath a veil of dark blue, and before Louis can blink Harry has disappeared beneath the water, the tiny device in his hands flying out after him as he swims. He only catches a glimpse of the lights flashing before the churning water covers them up. 

Louis sighs softly, but smiles nonetheless. Harry never tends to listens to his warnings, not even when Louis had let him hold his phone that first time, when Harry had shied away and hissed at the sound of the shutter going off, only at ease once Louis had awkwardly tried to explain to him that he had deleted the picture. He’d given Harry his phone to see, and he’d barely let the words _just don’t get it wet_ leave his lips before Harry had ducked beneath the water for almost ten minutes. Louis had sat on the edge of the pier with his mouth agape, trying to stop himself from jumping in after him and rescuing his phone.

Harry bursts through the water a moment later, the lights slung around his neck. He’s managed to change the settings so that they bulbs shine at a constant red, a wine-maroon that lines his face in a glassy rose tint, glinting dull and pretty off his necklace. His smile is so bright, dimples carved into his cheeks, and it’s been weeks since Louis’ seen that, since he’s looked so present and comfortable in the water around him, not trying to drift away in the swell.

“Thank you, Lou,” he says, darting forward to press against Louis’ shin, what’s come to be his favourite spot it seems, wet hair dripping into Louis’ socks and running a chill from his toes up to the top of his spine.

“That’s alright,” Louis says softly. 

“I have something for you, too,” Harry says, and Louis blinks.

“What?” he says, but Harry is already swimming away again, tail glinting like an urchin, glossy black in the passing storm light, reflective greens and blues shining through. When he reappears, he has a smooth shell cupped delicately in his palms, and he holds it up to Louis slowly, rising up in the water so that they’re almost level, Harry’s stomach clenching with the weight of holding himself upright like this, tail working. When Louis takes the shell, their fingers brushing, Harry slowly drops back down into the water and watches.

It’s glossy white, almost cream, a small conch shell with brilliant, smooth curves and tiny ridges, speckles of pink and terracotta slowly blurring into a body of colour. Louis holds it carefully, runs his thumb where it’s slickest, then passes his fingers over the bumps, feels the grit of sand and seawater, closes one eye and peers into the darkness of its insides. Finally, he holds it to his ear.

“I can hear the ocean,” he sighs dreamily, as another wave smashes into the pier. Harry rolls his eyes and splashes him gently, just on his wellies. “This is so beautiful, H.” 

Harry shrugs, shy. “I know it’s not anything, like. Special. I don’t really have…things.”

“Hey, no,” Louis cradles the shell to his chest. “I love it. It’s special to _me_.” 

Harry shrugs again, sinks half below the water to hide the stain of his cheeks, blowing bubbles. The lights fan and float around him, carving shadows into his skin, casting his lashes in shadow, temples warm and soft from their colour. Louis just stares at him for a moment, transfixed, always so transfixed with him, before Harry finally lifts his face from the water and starts to play with the lights again, clicking the button every few seconds just to watch them change, completely rapt. 

“We can hang them on the pier,” he says softly, changing the colour from blue to green. “Just like the lights up there.”

“Mhm,” Louis hums. “I can switch them on when I get here. It’ll be like a secret code.”

Harry rolls his eyes at him, something fond, but his gaze lowers, and he runs the ends of the lights through the water in a slow half-circle, shoulders twisting. “I don’t need the lights to know when you’re here.”

“No?” Louis raises an amused eyebrow, smiling. 

“No,” Harry shakes his head, looks away again as he changes the colours. “I can feel you in the water.” 

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that. His blood feels too warm in his body all the sudden, all the frost around him melting away.

“I know your body,” Harry continues, frowning slightly down at the water. “There’s only a small reef here, just tiny pods of fish. And sometimes I can feel the pebbles moving on the beach when people walk there, and I can feel them shift in the waves. But, I know your body best. I know when you touch the beach, and when you climb on the ladder, and when your boots hit the beams. I just know it’s you.”

He shrugs again, and it feels too nonchalant for the way Louis’ cheeks are burning, heart weighted. When Harry slowly meets his eyes, the lights are red again, and his cheeks are honey-flushed with it, the water looking more like a thick dew that a frost. Louis imagines he looks the same, even without the glow from the lights. He doesn’t know what to make of it, not at all. 

Harry is starting to drift now, sinking downwards with the lights on his neck.

“H,” Louis starts.

“Here,” Harry holds the lights out for him. “Keep them on for a bit, so I can watch?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, unsure as to why he suddenly feels breathless watching the water lick at Harry’s chin, dark shadows cradling his jaw and slicking his hair against his neck. 

“Thank you, Lou,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Louis repeats, frozen, watching Harry be swallowed by the waves, lights tangled and flashing between his fingers, the little conch still cradled by his ribs. 

He isn’t sure how long he remains there for, watching them flash, but by the time he switches the lights off it’s almost completely dark, foggy moonlight sweeping under the thick bank of cloud and shooting silver light along the tops of the now calm water, storm rumbling far off in the distance. The moon glints, a wink of light, and he wonders if Harry can see that beneath the heavy pressure of dark water, if those reflections cut through. 

When he holds the conch to his ear, juvenile, listening to the resonating _hush-hush-hush_ of sound, if he closes his eyes and lets his thoughts drift, it becomes a deep, soft lull of _feel you-feel you-feel you._

-

Harry is drifting in wide, smooth circles when Louis reaches the edge of the pier, Christmas lights trailing behind him, all baby-blue glow, light and mixing with the ocean. Louis pauses and leans his elbows against the railing, looking down and watching the glint of Harry’s tail, the shift of dark colour, the smoothness of his ribs and back when his body tilts with his movements, all pale, untouched skin, angelic. His hair drifts behind him in a curled mess, long tangles brushing against his shoulders, falling against his cheeks. 

Harry must know that Louis is there, but it’s the way he allows Louis just to watch that has all the air in his lungs leaving him in a steady _woosh_. It’s these little pockets of intimacy that Louis feels truly blessed to see, even more so sometimes than getting to actually talk to Harry, to be close and to touch. This is Harry just moving through the water, Harry at his most quiet and calm and natural, almost as transfixed by the lights as Louis is with him. 

Louis climbs down the ladder slowly, and by the time he’s comfortable, Harry has stopped his circling, instead resting with his elbows on the wooden beam beside Louis, lights back to red and warming his cheeks. The water is clinging to his face, messy brows slicked back, lips dotted with frosty droplets. Harry always brushes Louis off when he calls him magical, but he truly is nothing short of just that. Otherworldly and so gentle, beautiful. Magical.

“Afternoon, little fish,” Louis says, already grinning at the way Harry’s nose scrunches up, shoulders hunched into his neck, trying to stop himself from smiling back.

“‘M not a _fish_ ,” he mutters, mouth twisting from a pout into a smile and back again, cheeks carved with dimples. The first time Louis had jokingly called him that, before Harry had really begun to understand his humor and quips and how to properly talk to him, he’d flushed dark pink and had been properly upset about it. Louis still has to stop himself from finding Harry’s outrage at things like that adorable. 

“Whatever you say,” Louis says breezily. He loops his fingers through the loose end of the lights, tugging Harry a little closer. “You pulled them down.”

“I wanted to play with them,” Harry shrugs, unbothered, then he lights up again, grasping at Louis’ foot with his thin fingers. “Have you got another gift for me?”

“Maybe,” Louis says.

“Lou,” Harry whines, shaking his foot. 

“If you admit that you’re a fish I’ll give you your present.”

“ _Louis_.”

They fall into laughter together, Louis unable to keep a straight face, too enamoured with the giddy wet of Harry’s eyes and the red glow to his cheeks, the bulbs of light making them look warm and soft. He truly is the most startlingly gorgeous person Louis has ever encountered, even if Harry hates the term. Louis knows he hates creature more, hates _thing_ , hates the way he’s been chased down and hunted like a myth. Those labels all take away from him, though. Person has never felt like the wrong thing to say. 

Louis pulls the small camera from his bag and holds it out, but Harry just stares at it for a moment, head tilted, looking shy and uncertain.

“Do you know what this is?” Louis asks. Harry seems familiar, somewhat, eyeing the little disposable carefully. 

“It’s what–. The same as, um,” he trails off, searching for the words. “Your…phone? Your phone.”

Harry looks a little helpless, and Louis feels so warm inside watching him.

“It takes pictures,” Louis nods. “Like my phone did, before you swum off with it.”

“Hey,” Harry ducks his head, lips squished into a tiny smile. “I didn’t know, then. I could barely understand you.” 

“Excuses,” Louis teases. Harry still hasn’t taken the camera from his hands, and Louis regards him carefully. “I won’t take a picture of you, I promise.”

“Promise?” Harry whispers, shrunk into himself.

“Cross my heart,” Louis says. Harry just looks confused by the phrase, but it gives him enough courage to reach out and take the camera from Louis’ hands gingerly, thumb flicking over the little button on the top as he peers at it curiously. “You can look through that little square, just there. That’s called the viewfinder.”

Harry holds it away from his face, eyes squinted, before he brings it back up to his eyes, lids scrunched adorably as he looks into the viewfinder. It’s only a cheap disposable camera, one that can go underwater, but Harry seems to be slowly enamoured with it, twisting in a gradual circle with it held to his face, looking out to the ocean and then back to Louis.

“Once the rolls all used up, I can get the pictures printed for you,” Louis says. “Maybe laminate them, so you can keep them by the water?”

“How do I take a picture?” Harry asks, looking at Louis from over the top of the camera. 

“There’s a little button just by your thumb, there,” Louis points. “Hold that down.”

Harry points the camera at him, and before Louis can blink, the shutter goes off with a quiet _click_.

“Oi,” he splashes Harry, who’s laughing childishly, all mirth. “I wasn’t _ready_.” 

“Sorry,” Harry says, not sorry at all. “Smile, please?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Louis says, then gives Harry his biggest grin, tucking himself into his scarf and coat.

Harry is smiling softly to himself when the shutter goes, this placid, almost fond calm settling over his features as his shoulders sink into the water. He takes three more pictures, the jolted _click_ of the shutter muted by the wind. Louis’ cheeks are starting to hurt from holding his grin, so he sticks his tongue out instead, and Harry giggles.

“Stop wasting the film,” Louis says, once Harry finally lowers the camera away from his face.

“Not wasting it,” Harry counters. He takes another picture, giving Louis no warning again, and when he lowers it once more, his eyes are serious, almost hopeful in a way, looking up at Louis from below. 

Louis hopes the cold hides the unexpected flush that rushes into his cheeks.

-

On day three, Louis brings Harry a bag of gingerbread men that he stole from Lottie, freshly baked that morning, lolly eyes and chocolate buttons stuck down with pink and blue icing. The first time Louis had brought food down with him it had been halfway through autumn, a flour dusted scone that he’d been munching on after missing lunch, and Harry had tentatively asked to try some. He’d spat it out like a toddler, coughing when he accidentally inhaled a cloud of flour, which had amused Louis to no end, but it was the first time he awkwardly asked whether Harry could even eat human food in the first place.

The answer was a begrudged, offended _yes_ , even though the scone had gone gluggy in the water and Harry was wiping at his tongue hilariously with the back of his hand, claiming that he’d stolen things before, crisps from the cooler bags of fisherman out on the rocks and fruit left too close to the water in the warmer coasts he’d travelled along. That was another thing that Louis had awkwardly asked, how he’d gotten to be here, in this tiny English cove during the winter, all alone.

Apparently, and unsurprisingly, now that Louis knows him well, Harry often had a tendency to wander off current whenever their group would migrate, exploring new ocean, especially in the shallower water, where the reefs were clear and he didn’t have to swim down into the dark chill to let colourful fish brush his fingers and to feel the texture of bright coral under his hands. The migrating thing was something that Louis had never even considered, likely because before meeting Harry and even during the first few weeks they begun their strange meetings, he never believed that mermaids, a term he still shakes his head in disbelief at using, _mermaids_ , exist. 

But they do, and Harry told him loosely what had happened, mumbling that they’d been shifting down from Iceland, where the water is pure and the chill of it in summertime is cleansing and gentle, as far down to the southern hemisphere as they could reach by end of autumn, hoping to settle on the Australian coasts. Harry had been distracted, had pulled himself out of the current to dip into the dark water, chasing glimmers of sunlight and the ripple of new creatures in the water, and when he’d turned to join his family again, the strength of the current had already taken them out of sight, and he couldn’t remember which current they’d been swimming through, or how far he’d swum, how far he’d been carried himself by the natural ebb of the waves. 

It had made Louis’ heart so heavy, imagining it, Harry aimless and drifting, just a lone speck in the terrifying expanse of blue sea. He says he’s always had a terrible sense of direction and coordination, and he’d somehow ended up being drawn to the closest body of land, then closer into the nooks and crannies of the cliffs and the jagged coast, coves he could hide himself in and try to settle. He’d been red cheeked and embarrassed in admitting that he couldn’t remember where to go, how to get where he needed to be, like it was supposed to be ingrained in him, but that’s why Louis finds it so easy calling him a person and not just some thing, a creature, because he has all those human qualities, _Harry_ qualities, the forgetfulness and unsurety and the emotion of being lost and far away from familiarity. 

He likes it here though, from what Louis can tell, from what Harry has told him, likes the cliffs and the flashing lights and the soft sprinkling of snow that dust the trees and melt into icy blue rivets along the cliffs, the flakes that melt on his tongue when he lifts his face from the water. And, well. He likes Louis, too. That’s what Louis hopes, anyway. He never imagined himself becoming so enamoured and fond over Harry, but he supposes it was always inevitable, from the very moment they first accidentally caught sight of each other. 

Harry loves the gingerbread, just like Louis suspected he would, but by the end he’s just picking off the jelly lollies and chewing them happily before he hands the gingerbread back to Louis like a child, munching away and swishing his tail through the water, sugar making his smile wild, full of the joy that reminds him of the feeling he gets on Christmas morning, that he still gets even now as an adult, waking up and going downstairs and seeing his sisters buzzing around the Christmas tree in their pajamas. 

The following day, Louis decides to just bring Harry a huge bag of assorted sweets, jelly snakes and candy canes and more gingerbread men, polo mints and chocolate coins and a few Christmas crackers that Harry is immediately intrigued by until he and Louis pull one apart, and he flinches at the abrupt _bang_ of the card strip inside snapping, darting beneath the water to hide until Louis is able to coax him up again, showing him the paper hat and the little santa figurine inside. Harry slowly curls closer, and when he lets Louis put the round green crown on his head, it feels too intimate. Harry has to lean up on the beam for Louis to reach him properly, so much so that his tail is visible, and even though the water soaks through the flimsy paper almost immediately, Harry looks immensely pleased at his festiveness. 

“Why couldn’t the skeleton go to the Christmas party?” Louis reads the joke from the little card inside the cracker.

“Why?” Harry says. He adjusts his hat with wet fingers, apparently unaware that it’s starting to fall apart.

“He had no body to go with,” Louis finishes, grinning at the dramatic groan from Harry, the way he covers his face as he laughs loudly, shaking his head behind his hands and then parting his fingers to peer up at Louis.

“That’s terrible,” he says, but he’s still giggling, damp paper drooping into his eyes. 

“It’s hilarious,” Louis argues.

Harry is obsessed with the candy canes, lips shiny with the sticky sugar from them. Louis got the strawberry flavoured kind because he thinks they’re far superior, and Harry blindly agrees with him without having tasted the mint ones, chewing the tacky candy happily. By the time they get to the jelly snakes Harry is chewing with his lips pulled back from his teeth, the oddest expression on his face, and Louis can almost hear how dry and sugarcoated his mouth is from here when he chews around a snake, stretching it from between his teeth until it snaps. 

“You don’t _have_ to eat all of this, you know,” Louis says, amused, gesturing to the ripped open bags of sweets. “You’re going to have the worst sugar rush.”

“It’s tasty,” Harry argues, even as he struggles to swallow around the jelly snake, grimacing slightly. “My throat feels funny.” 

“Yep,” Louis laughs. “That’ll be the sugar.”

Harry just pouts and reaches for the bags again, sorting through them with great scrutiny until he finds the polo mints.

“I haven’t tried these ones yet,” he says, apparently determined to _actually_ try and eat everything Louis has brought down for him. 

Louis remains silent as Harry unwraps the top of the little tube packet, remains silent when Harry pulls back the foil, remains silent when he pops the first mint into his mouth. Immediately, his face screws up into a hilarious grimace, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth, making a horrific _eugh!_ Louis can’t help it when he laughs, watching Harry grow more and more distressed at the mint still sitting on his tongue, melting into a gooey nothing.

“ _Eyugh!_ ” Harry grunts again, shaking his head fervently, panicked.

“Spit it out!” Louis is wheezing now, tears beading in his eyes as Harry lets the mint droop slowly off his tongue and into the water, fizzing away into nothing. He ducks his head and fills his mouth with seawater, swishing it around in an attempt to get rid of the taste, and when he spits it out his mouth remains open, breathing laboured.

“Why does it _taste_ like that?” he says, muffled and odd and almost unintelligible with his tongue lolling about. “It _burns_.”

“Give ‘em here, you big baby,” Louis is still laughing, even moreso when Harry hands the packet over, disgruntled and pouting, arms crossed over his chest where he bobs in the water. His crown has melted and stuck to his skin from the ocean, plastered against his forehead. 

Harry sulks as he swims closer, reaching up for the candy canes and sucking one into his mouth dejectedly, splashing Louis with a tiny wave of water almost half-heartedly, petulantly. Louis tries to quell his amusement and fails. 

“They’re not really supposed to taste _nice_ , I guess,” he says. “They keep your breath fresh.” 

Harry looks perplexed by the notion. “Fresh? That was _fresh_?”

“Yes,” Louis says, laughing when Harry furrows his brow and looks almost offended.

“Who would want their mouth to taste like that?” Harry says, genuinely concerned. 

“A lot of people,” Louis says. “Mint is the same flavour as toothpaste, too, which is what we use to clean our teeth with.”

Almost unconsciously, Harry runs his fingers along the front of his teeth, curious. “You clean them? Why?”

“To get rid of all the gross sugar and food we have during the day,” Louis explains, “or in the morning, too. Morning breath is the worst.”

“Oh,” Harry says quietly, and he touches his teeth again, then pulls his lips into his mouth. 

“Hey, don’t stress,” Louis nudges him with his shoe gently. “You’ve got lovely teeth. Must be your mermaid magic that keeps them clean.”

“I _don’t_ have–” Harry cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and Louis laughs. 

“Well, it’s not like you eat a lot of sugar anyway,” he says. “Apart from the gross things I bring you.”

“Like scones,” Harry says darkly.

“Yeah, like scones,” Louis grins. “Delicious.”

“Disgusting,” Harry counters, scrunching his nose. “ _That_ made my teeth feel weird.”

“Yeah, well. That’s why people have mints. Makes them feel refreshed, or whatever,” Louis shrugs. “Plus, nobody wants to kiss anyone who’s not brushed their teeth and smells like old coffee.”

Harry pauses for a moment and brings his fingers up to his lips. “Kiss?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says slowly. “Do you–. You know what that is, yeah?”

“I…think so?” Harry’s brows knit together. “It’s, like. It’s lips?”

“I guess,” Louis says, laughing softly. “Two people’s lips, like, touching? I’ve never actually had to explain what it is. Usually the person you’re in a relationship with is who you kiss, like, romantically. But there are different types of kisses.”  

Harry looks thoughtful, bobbing up and down in the water and fiddling idly with his rusty necklace.  

“Can I have toothpaste tomorrow?” he asks.

“You–. What?” Louis says, bemused. 

“I want to try it,” Harry says seriously, and he touches his teeth again, like he’s trying to wipe the sugar away.

“It tastes like the mints,” Louis reminds him, and Harry eyes them warily for a moment.

“I still want to try,” he finally says, settling his expression with determination. His paper hat is stuck along his brows and bowing sadly at the sides, starting to tear from being wet and thinned. 

“If you’re sure that’s what you really want,” Louis says, watching as Harry ducks forward and pinches another candy cane.

“I’m sure,” Harry huffs, sticking the end of the candy cane into his mouth defiantly. “Need to get rid of the sugar.”

-

Watching Harry attempt to brush his teeth may very well be the most entertaining thing Louis has ever seen. 

He’s so careful with it, holding the brush as steady as he can in front of himself. He squeezes the tube too hard, and toothpaste squirts out at an alarming pace, streaking his fingers and falling in goopy lumps into the water. Harry lets out a little noise of alarm and tries to flick it away, washing the brush and starting over. Louis watches the entire ordeal with his fingers against his cheeks, mouth hidden, because he truly just can’t stop the amusement from curling up over his lips.

“‘Dis ish weir’,” Harry says, foam gathered around the corners of his mouth, brushing furiously. He hasn’t spat it out yet, and he hasn’t swallowed it either, so the toothpaste is turning into a colossal, foamy mess. He looks confused by the motion of running the brush over his teeth, and eventually, when the dribbles of paste become too much, he finally spits it out into the water, expression pinched, tongue shockingly white. 

“How do you feel?” Louis says. “Squeaky clean? Refreshed?”

Harry wipes at his tongue and makes a face at the residual foam on his fingers. “Gross.”

Louis laughs in complete delight, Harry joining him after a moment.

It’s an absolutely freezing day, cold frost skirting on the top of the water and into Louis’ eyes, sneaking up into every crevice of his clothing, up into his scarf to latch at his neck. He’s huddled over, hugging what he can reach of his legs to his chest, beanie pulled down to his brows. There’s a misty, light fog of rain that’s starting to flutter down, and far in the distance, storm clouds are brewing. The cold snap of the air is palpable and white-blue, and there’s snow forecast to fall tonight, for the next few days.

“Lou,” Harry says, swimming close. “You’re going to freeze.”

“‘S’alright,” he shivers. His breath is starting to come out in puffs of white, noon drawing to a close. “I’ll survive.”

A rough swell jolts Harry closer in the water, and he moves with it, nudges into Louis’ legs and holds onto his feet gently. He never seems to be affected by the chill of the water, just sinks his body deeper into it like the comfort of a blanket. “Is it going to snow?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods. “Think so. For the next few days.” 

Harry frowns, fingers tightening. His thumbs dig into Louis’ big toes. “You’ll still come, though?”

“Duh.” Louis wiggles his toes and Harry clamps down on them, nose scrunching up, cheeks flushed. Everything about him is so pale in the winter light that the pink streaks on his skin flare like dewy beacons. 

Louis wants to touch him.

-

The snow does fall. Heavily.

Louis wakes to find his ankles poking out from under his blankets, brittle and stiff from the cold, the light outside blindingly white and grey. It’s still coming down by the time he manages to convince himself to get out of bed, and a hollow, swooping feeling settles in his stomach when he sees the flurry of it, the nasty thrash of the ocean out past the blur of soggy flakes, rooftops dusted and lights muted.

It hasn’t cleared up by the afternoon, but the snowfall is lighter at least. The moment he starts to lace up his boots, his mum appears around the corner like she’s got a sixth sense.

“ _What_ on earth are you doing?” she says.

“Uh,” Louis stills, still crouched with his laces looped. “Going for a walk.”

“I don’t think so,” she looks the least impressed he’s ever seen her, and he starts to panic a little, thinking of Harry bobbing up and down in the harsh waves, waiting for him. 

“It’s really important,” Louis tries. 

“So is your life,” his mum says, and he groans, almost expecting that response. “I won’t have you going down to the beach and slipping on the cliffs.”

He remains bitter for the rest of the day. Locked up in his room, he smooths his hands over the shells Harry has brought him so far, small little things of pink and dark blue and murky green, watching the snow build and flutter away and then pick up again, so harshly that he can no longer see the water. He feels absolutely terrible, desperate enough to see Harry that he considers climbing out through the window and running down to the water. The thought of leaving him alone when he promised he’d be there sinks Louis’ heart somewhere blue and guilty, but moreso somewhere desperate to just see him for the sake of spending time with him. 

It snows for another two days, lightly, but he’s still denied the ability to leave the house. The snow has gathered up in lumpy white around their doorstep, framing the roads and tumbling onto the black tar, shiny sleet that glosses their windows. Usually it’d be a whirlwind winter dream for Louis, but he’s never detested the flurry of snow more, innately furious each time he wakes up to see their lawn dusted white, the water flurried and wild. 

Finally, the weather breaks. The wind sweeps the clouds up in huge, fluffy bundles, and through the cracks between the soft white, the sky is blue-grey and clear, snow shining with yellow reflects. He’s bundled up in about five layers of clothing when he bursts from the house, slipping on his arse the moment he steps foot out onto the road. He manages to calm himself to a slow walk once his mother shouts at him out the window, and he makes his way down to the beach with a giddy flurry stirring in his chest, a warm, twisted type of snow that’s making his cheeks buzz from the thrill of it.

He always comes down in the afternoons, but the beach is still completely deserted this morning when he finishes his slippery descent down the cliffside. All the pebbles are slick and shiny, slushy snow gone brown at the base of the cliffs where the reeds poke up and tangle with the rock. The tide is drawn out today, the most shallow Louis’ seen it all winter, so the dip down to the water is steep. When he steps out onto the pier he breaks into a run, flushed from how hot he is under all his clothes, pink cheeked and rednosed from the brittle chill of the wind that’s slicing off the water.

He almost slips and falls in when he’s climbing down the ladder. The water is low enough that he can balance himself on the supporting beam, and by the time he finally sits and settles his chest is heaving a little, fingers shaky even with his gloves on. He pulls his scarf up around his cheeks, pulls his beanie down to his eyebrows and burrows into the fabric to try and find warmth, closing his eyes again the prickly cold.

“Harry!” he calls out, a little superfluously. “ _H!_ ” 

Nothing calls back to him but his own voice on the wind and the _shh_ of water breaking against the pier, sea-foam dotting his pants and his wellies. He waits, but nothing comes, and his heart is sinking like a deadweight, drawing him closer to the water like if he falls far enough he might find Harry swimming in circles at the bottom. The Christmas lights strewn around the pier are lifeless and hollow, having obviously run out of battery from running constantly, Louis not here to replace them.

He feels deflated and desperate and strangely like he’s about to cry. They haven’t been days without seeing each other since they first started to meet here, when Harry was tentative and wouldn’t come within ten feet of the pier, instead swimming back and forth lazily with just his eyes peeking up out of the water, listening to Louis talk until he finally decided to respond. Louis really shouldn’t miss him this much, he _shouldn’t_ , but Harry has become one of, if not the most important thing in his life now, and he feels strangely empty when the wind makes his eyes water, arms crossed against his chest in an attempt to shield himself.

There’s the odd, flickering sound of water splashing, a dull, wet lap of sound, and when Louis opens his eyes, Harry’s head is poking up in the distance. The moment their eyes meet, he’s propelling himself forward like a bullet, the quickest Louis has ever seen him swim, body shooting through the water so smooth and fast that Louis almost hangs onto the beam, expecting them to collide.

“ _Lou_ ,” Harry gasps out when he resurfaces, and then he’s lurching forward again, this time, straight into Louis’ stomach.

Louis freezes, goes completely still, because Harry is hugging him.

He’s got his face pressed into Louis’ belly, arms wrapped so tight around his waist. The initial chill of the water doesn’t hit Louis at first, but then the wet tendrils of Harry’s hair start to drip, soaking through his sweater and his pants and it’s absolutely freezing, has his skin flaring with goosebumps immediately. The water is so cold, but Harry’s body burns like a furnace against him. The longer he’s touching Louis’ body, the warmer he seems to become, and Louis is still frozen, still slack-mouthed, heart in his throat, unable to _move_ because Harry is _hugging_ him, and. It’s so much.

“Hey,” Louis lets the word out in a rush of air, and finally hugs him back. 

It’s kind of hard to, and the angle is awkward and strains his back, but he ducks himself down and tucks his face against the crown of Harry’s head, wraps his arms around his wet shoulders. Harry is completely encased by his body, and Louis can feel him rubbing his cheek against his sweater, nose brushing his belly button, sighing gently. They’ve never been close like this, and even when they have touched, Harry always reserves part of himself, always moves away soon after.

He doesn’t seem like he has any plans to release the tight grip he has around Louis’ middle anytime soon.

“You alright?” Louis whispers when Harry starts to shudder. 

“Missed you,” Harry whispers back, reedy. “Feels like forever when you aren’t here.” 

Louis’ entire cheek and the side of his neck are damp from being pressed against Harry’s hair, gone numb, but he somehow still manages to feel the pinpricks of warmth that flush there, closing his eyes against the rush of that feeling, of being wanted so much like that, needed by another person. 

“I forgot to bring your presents,” Louis says into Harry’s hair, feeling brave enough to run his fingers through it slowly, just once, just to see how it feels. It’s tangled with knots but the water makes it smooth and slick.

“This is enough,” Harry says, thumbs pushing into Louis’ back. “This is more than enough.” 

When they finally pull back, Louis’ body aching from the strain of being bent like that, Harry looks overwhelmed and shaky, frosted eyes shiny, lips swollen, like he’s been biting at them over and over, drawing circles in water and waiting anxiously. Another hot streak of guilt sears through Louis.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “The snow–”

“It isn’t your fault,” Harry cuts him off, shakes his head firmly.

“I feel so terrible,” Louis admits, looping his arms loosely over his stomach.

“Don’t,” Harry says. “Please, don’t feel terrible. It’s okay.” 

It doesn’t seem like it, somehow. Somewhere along the line, Louis realizes now, they’ve built up some form of codependency. All he thinks about is Harry now, when he’s seeing him next, the questions he wants to ask and all the things he wants to know, because he’s never been so invested in someone else before. Harry sparks his chest with curiosity and life and he feels drained and empty without that. Here, now, still warm from Harry’s body despite the way his clothes are soaked through, he’s never felt so full. 

“I missed you, too, by the way,” Louis says, breathing slow. “If that wasn’t obvious.”

Harry smiles, gentle as that last sweep of snowfall, and rests his head on Louis’ shin.

-

The next day is quiet. 

Louis brings batteries to get the lights working again, and Harry has his disposable camera strapped around his wrist when he surfaces. They split more gingerbread men, Harry picking off the lollies and their stumpy legs while Louis finishes the rest, staying relatively silent. Harry won’t stop touching him, lingering fingers on his feet, shoulder brushing his foot, head resting against his shin, both of them facing outwards, looking at the giant expanse of the ocean, the lazy stretch of noon. 

There is a moment, though. Louis glances down, looks away from the grey-blue of a slow sunset, and Harry’s eyes are closed, lids soft like flower petals, nose brushing the worn denim of Louis’ jeans. He looks at peace, figure still, shoulders curled towards Louis’ body. Louis doesn’t know how long he’s been like that for, how long he’s been doing nothing but feeling the weight of Louis’ body instead of watching the sea, but the most brilliant warmth burns in Louis’ stomach, floods outwards from his heart into his limbs and fuzzes his fingers. 

Carefully, he brushes a loose curl back from Harry’s face, strokes his thumb over his mused brow, rests it soft against his temple. Harry doesn’t open his eyes, just leans into the touch and presses closer, and Louis lets his hand rest there, lets his fingers slot among the dampness of Harry’s hair, gently prying curled knots apart with cautious strokes, breaths coming out short, trapped somewhere erratic and suspended in his chest. 

-

Louis has to pause at the base of the cliffs, hand still lingering on the old wood of the stair railing. The tide is stripped far away, pebbles exposed and stretched into almost nothing. It’s the furthest back he’s ever seen it, like the ocean has opened its wide mouth and let the water drain away, the waves barely breaking at the front of the pier, fizzling out to nothing at the very edge of the beach’s steep decline. 

As a result, the water seems far away by ear as well, wind settling gentle through his hair as he walks out along the pier, hands deep in his pockets. It’s late, later than he’d normally be here, but he’d been stuck at home answering those obligatory phone calls from numerous relatives, lounging in front of the fire and watching the clock tick. Darkness is blurring the edges of the sky, a dull, deep orange lining the horizon, strong enough to break through the mist. 

Harry is waiting for him when he arranges himself on the beam, legs tucked in, bag in his lap. 

“Hello,” Harry says, giddy, biting down on his smile. 

“Hi, little fish,” Louis smiles back.

“Happy birthday,” Harry says. He moves closer, loops his arms through the ladder beside Louis and rests his head against it, almost eye level with Louis’ knee. Louis’ eyes get caught on the place where his tail pokes up through the water, then on the smooth, almost translucent edges of his fins when Harry lifts it out of the sea lazily, wide and dripping with shiny droplets. “Did you have a nice day?”

“Uh-huh,” Louis says, shrugging. “Pretty normal.” 

Harry tucks his face into the crook of his elbow, lowers his eyes. Smiles. “Mm.” 

There’s something so subtle and soft about that gesture, the way Harry’s cheek bunches up against the skin of his arm, the wet shine of his messy lashes, hair mused and curling on his forehead, stuck to his temples. When he glances back up, still tucked away into himself, Louis loses his breath. Harry’s eyes are tiny gems, and there’s so much there, so much expression just in one look, that Louis is helpless to the way his heart hums, shakes in his chest with this sudden burst of _oh_ that perhaps has always been there but has never made itself properly known until now. 

“It’s better, now,” Louis says, and Harry’s eyes bunch up when he smiles, all teeth. “Definitely not normal.”

“Feels normal to me,” Harry says, and that. That makes Louis pause, because it does. It feels so normal to be here with Harry.

“I brought something for you,” Louis says, unzipping his bag. Harry watches quietly, still tucked against his arm, but the movement of his tail speeds up, slapping gently against the water when he lifts it completely from the waves, long and drawn out behind him and shining beautifully. Louis pulls the little stocking from amongst the mess of his bag, and Harry stills, curious.

“What’s that?” he says. Louis holds it out for him, and his brows crease. “Sock.”

Louis hangs his head and laughs, unable to stop it bubbling upward. “ _No_. Not a sock.”

“Well,” Harry huffs, giggling, almost as if to say _what did you expect me to think?_

“It’s a Christmas stocking,” Louis explains softly. “We all have one, my sisters and I, even mum. We hang them over the fireplace, and they get filled with little presents.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“This is yours,” Louis says, holding it out for him again and pointing to the wonkily sewn _HARRY_ that he attempted to stitch into the top, bright green against the red fabric. “Made it myself.” 

“Oh,” Harry repeats, softer this time. He has tears in his eyes.

“Are you–” Louis pauses, watches as Harry takes the tiny stocking into his hands and presses it against his chest.  He closes his eyes slowly, opens them slower, and he presses his face against Louis’ leg.

“Thank you,” he whispers, muffled by fabric. “Lou.”

“It’s alright,” Louis cups his head gently, in almost a stoic shock at how affected Harry is by this, unsure of what to do. Harry’s shoulders shudder with a caught breath. “Hey, _hey_. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry murmurs. “I just miss my family, and this is really sweet. You’re sweet.”

“Oh, H,” Louis says. “I’m sorry.”

Harry shakes his head, breathing in sharply as he pulls back. Louis reluctantly lifts his hand, takes the stocking back from Harry to rest it carefully on the beam.

“I haven’t given you your present yet,” Harry says.

“I told you, you don’t have to give me anything,” Louis smiles gently. 

“I want to,” Harry says, and he’s reaching up for his necklace, unclasping it, rusty silver pooling into his collarbones, then into his palms.

“What are you–” Louis blinks, remains motionless as Harry swims closer, drags himself up with one hand on the wooden beam, so close their bodies brush, and Louis is shifting his legs back unconsciously so Harry can fit himself there.

Harry loops the necklace behind Louis’ neck, so that the cross digs into his skin, and he tugs him forward gently with both ends of the thin, delicate chain, bringing him closer to the water, to Harry. He’s got his brows gently furrowed, trying to clip the necklace together. Louis is silent, staring, trying not to topple off the beam, overwhelmed at being this close, their noses almost brushing when Harry glances up at him before quickly looking away, fingers fumbling with the chain. 

“H–”

“ _Ssh_ ,” Harry hushes him, so soft, and finally gets the little clip to click into place. He’s so gentle when he reaches behind Louis’ neck for the cross, bringing it around to Louis’ front. The weight of it feels so much heavier than it really is, pulling Louis’ head down, closer, and their noses do brush this time when Harry finally looks away from Louis’ chest, eyes so pale and clear and _close_. 

“I can’t take this from you,” Louis whispers, fingers holding the cross gently. Their knuckles bump, Harry’s own hand still lingering by Louis’ chest. 

“I want you to have it,” Harry says. Louis can feel his breath on his lips, the coolness of it. He smells of the ocean and rain and snow, of some twisted, impossible warmth. “So I can go with you, up there.”

“Harry,” Louis says, reedy and thin. He feels overwhelmed with an emotion that he can barely begin to describe, chest tight.

“So you won’t forget me, when you have to go,” Harry whispers, all shiny eyes and pink lips and Louis sags against him, their foreheads brushing.

“I’m not leaving,” he insists fiercely, voice so quiet. “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry whispers, and then they’re just still. The only movement is Harry rocking naturally with the ebb of the water, making their noses bump intermittently, so soft. Louis doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare risk breaking this moment, this intimacy, this warmth. 

“I have to go,” Louis says regretfully, later, minutes, hours, some nondescript measurement of time that no longer matters, something he can only measure in Harry’s blinks and their skin touching. “Mum will have my head if I miss dinner.” 

Harry laughs softly, sinks down into the water. “Alright.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Louis asks. It’s the first time he’s been the one to say it, and it feels desperate, like he might just die if he doesn’t get to see Harry after this moment, if the tide pulling away and Harry sinking into the water even holds the slight possibility that he might not get to touch him ever again. 

“Of course,” Harry says, drifting, drifting, until it’s just the waves and the dull ebb of sunset and he’s far beneath the water.

Louis tangles his fingers in the necklace and closes his eyes, tries to breathe.

-

Christmas always brings the best kind of chaos. 

There’s colourful wrapping paper crunching constantly underfoot, and the entire house smells of roasting foods, fruits and cakes and vegetables, turkey and ham, nutmeg and cinnamon and pine. It always feels as though December is the build up to an explosion of festivity that spans an entire, exhausting day, and Louis’ cheeks are sore by the time he manages to stumble down the cliffside, belly too full of food, new scarf wrapped up around his neck. 

There’s a plate of wrapped food in his hands, carefully snuck from the kitchen. In the distance, Louis can see the tiny flash of Christmas lights on the pier, the soft, barely there ebb of red that means Harry is waiting for him already, hidden out of sight somewhere beneath the waves. 

“I’ve got food,” Louis announces loudly, once he’s settled on the beam. Harry appears almost instantly, eyes bright.

“Merry Christmas,” he chirps, making grabby hands for the plate Louis is unwrapping.

“Merry Christmas, little fish,” Louis smiles, watching Harry pick at the ham curiously before feasting on the roast potatoes instead, cheeks bulged like a chipmunk when he attempts to grin up at Louis through his mouthful. 

Harry eats quietly, listens intently to Louis’ account of the day, the tornado of wrapping paper that had been fired at him by his sisters and the endless attack of Christmas carols, helping his mum with dinner and feeling sick after eating too many mince pies, sitting by the fire and watching old films flicker.

Harry doesn’t touch the turkey or the ham on his plate, which Louis for some reason finds endlessly amusing, and when he pushes the plate into Louis’ hands, tongue proding into his teeth, Louis slips his stocking out of his bag. 

“You can open this now,” Louis says. Harry’s expression softens, and he leans up fully on the beam, almost lunging out of the water to rest his elbows there, body floating in the water. Louis watches his tail so he doesn’t have to look at Harry’s face as he gingerly dips his fingers into the stocking.

“What–” Harry pauses, then slowly pulls the thin gold chain from inside, letting it pool in his palm. “Louis.”

“I figured you’d want a replacement,” Louis says, words fumbling because he can feel himself going pink. Harry is still staring down at the necklace, letting it shift beneath his fingers, silent. “I got it when I was, um, eighteen, I think. Pretty sure it’s real gold, so. Hopefully it shouldn’t rust like the last one.”

“Put it on me?” Harry says, voice raspy and worn. He finally looks up, and there’s that shine to his waterline, tears blinked away and hidden. 

“Yeah,” Louis holds his hand out. “C’mere.” 

Harry drops the necklace into Louis hand gently, and it’s cool in his palm, cupped there while he watches Harry slowly turn his back to him, shoulders bumping Louis’ shins. Louis sucks in a slow, shuddery breath, fingers shaky when he pushes Harry’s hair over his shoulder carefully, trying not to linger with his touches, trying not to smooth his fingers out over soft, pale skin, just aching to touch. He slides the necklace around the front of Harry’s neck slowly, passes it under his hair, brushes the curls away again when they get tangled. 

Harry’s breathing is steady, but he’s so still, both of them strung taut. It takes Louis a few tries to clip it together, cold, flustered fingers refusing to cooperate.

“There,” he says, clearing his throat. “Now we match.”

It’s supposed to come off as light, but the words hold weight the moment they droop from Louis’ lips and fall through the slither of space between them. Harry tilts his head back, cradled by Louis’ crossed legs, and Louis can see his face so clearly like this, all his angles and soft edges. They just stare at each other for so long, and then Harry is shifting, rolling onto his front like the natural barrel of a wave, hand on Louis’ thigh as he lifts himself up and presses their mouths together.

Louis freezes, wide-eyed. Their lips are just touching, and after the initial pressure they just continue to brush, slightly parted as they breathe, both just watching each other. Beneath the hope and the warmth and the mist in Harry’s eyes, he looks uncertain, afraid, and that’s what makes Louis duck forward again, the swell of wanting those fears to be distinguished as quickly as they came.

Harry’s mouth is cool and wet but so warm inside, and they fumble for a moment, Harry unsure with his movements, gasping slightly against the pressure of Louis’ lips, folding into him, but then something slots into place and Louis’ palms find Harry’s cheeks and it works, it works and they’re kissing slow and sweet and Louis could cry. 

Louis pulls him closer, gets his fingers into his hair and presses them together, Harry holding onto his waist, elbows digging into the sides of Louis’ thighs as he holds himself up. Louis can feel the soft furrow of Harry’s brow, their faces so close, everything so close, and there’s this giddy, gooey elation spreading through his veins, making his heart thud against his ribs almost painfully. Harry is slow and soft and open with his kisses, lets Louis in and curls his tongue gently and hesitantly, fingers clenching and unclenching in Louis’ coat as he tries to breathe, tries to press closer. 

Louis lets one of his hands drift, touches the smooth skin of Harry’s collarbone, his shoulder, the line of his back, just pressing in gently to all these unexplored, unmarked places, the parts of Harry that he never thought he’d get to feel like this. His lips are overwhelmingly soft, and Louis can’t help biting at them a little, listening to the whispered gasp that passes between them, sliding his hand down to Harry’s waist and holding his hip, pressing his thumb against Harry’s jaw to help him open up. 

He really doesn’t mean it, when the tips of his fingers brush the place where Harry’s tail starts, but he feels the soft silk of scales, the stickiness of seawater, and then Harry is shivering and gasping and spreading his lips wider, body shuddering into Louis’, their mouths parting for a moment, pressing against chin and jaw and neck.

“Lou,” Harry whispers, and he sounds so overwhelmed that Louis has to keep his eyes closed. He lets his fingers brush that spot again and then Harry is pressing their lips back together, nodding his head frantically, their noses bumping, and Louis touches him properly, reaches down, back aching, and lets his hand brush over Harry’s scales. 

The reaction is immediate. Harry’s body continues to shiver and twist and shudder, letting these soft, short gasps past Louis’ lips. It’s the most intimate touch, and it somehow manages to feel so innocent and sweet, the sweetest and purest thing that Louis has ever felt or had with anyone. He doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to taste anything but the warmth of Harry’s mouth, lingering traces of mint beneath ocean, and it dawns on Louis slowly, the whole ordeal with Harry’s curiosity and the mints and the toothpaste and then he has to break the kiss because he’s smiling, laughing gently, cheeks so warm it feels as though he could melt all that sunset fog away. 

“What?” Harry whispers, their lips smudging together, and he’s smiling too, just as breathless with his gentle laughter.

“Nothing,” Louis shakes his head, bumps their noses together. Harry’s eyes are so bright. “I’m just happy.” 

“Me, too,” Harry kisses him gently, just a peck. “You make me happy.”

They kiss again, properly, because they can, because the second that passed already feels like too long for their lips to be apart. They stay close, stay warm in each other’s arms, stay together until night comes and it gets dark, temperature dropping into frost, just the Christmas lights glowing around them, bathing them in softest red, gentlest green, cradling them in these homey shadows. 

“Lou,” Harry breathes, sleepy and soft. He’s got his head on Louis’ shin, Louis’ fingers in his hair.

“Mm?” Louis hums, leans down and presses a soft kiss into Harry’s hair, then to his lips when he tilts his head up for a proper kiss. 

“‘S too cold for you out here,” he says, when they reluctantly part. 

“Don’t wanna leave you,” Louis admits, heat cradled in his cheeks, in his chest. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I?” Harry says, and in the coloured shadows Louis can see the quirk of his mouth, the happy gleam of his eyes.

There’s so much they need to say, so much they both need to think about, that they need to address, because Louis belongs to the land and Harry belongs to the sea and they’ve met somewhere in the middle, here, transcended these places they’re supposed to stay for the comfort and companionship they’ve found in each other; and Louis knows that soon Harry could leave him, that the season will change again and the water will shift and Harry could drift with it, just like Louis could pack up his things and go, away with work, with his family.

But here, now, they have this, they have this moment cupped in their palms and they’ve found warmth amongst a closing summer and an auburn autumn and a frozen winter, and Louis feels as though he could want this forever, however impossible it may be, but he wants it, he wants Harry in every season, every month and day that passes. He wants him for as long as he can have him, and right now, he’s got him. They’ve got each other.

“You will,” Louis says, and when they kiss, the last time for tonight, but certainly not for the last time, they’re both smiling too wide for it to last. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> u have no idea how hard it was for me not to make the ending a Typical Lysha Angst™ finale but its christmas and i just couldn't do y'all dirty like that 
> 
> [heres](http://fondleeds.tumblr.com/post/168926872724/to-the-light-by-fondleeds-for-louistomlinsons) a little fic post if u wanna check that out and come say hi on tumblr!
> 
> hope u enjoyed this!! merry christmas and happy new year, hopefully i'll see u all here again soon ♡


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